


(Not) Being Ray Vecchio

by Isis



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Post-Call of the Wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-31
Updated: 2006-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:45:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray Kowalski has an identity crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not) Being Ray Vecchio

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ds_flashfiction Vecchio challenge and inspired by _Being John Malkovich_.

"And this is my partner, Ray Vecchio," said Fraser. 

"Kowalski," said Ray. "You can call me Kowalski now, remember?" 

"Of course, Ray," said Fraser. "I'm afraid I'm not yet in the habit." 

The shopkeeper smiled. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vecchio." 

"Kowalski." 

Ray tuned them out as they went into a back room, talking about tinned butter and pemmican and God knew what else. The stuff they'd gotten from Frobisher was beginning to run low; fortunately, they hadn't been far from this settlement, and when Fraser had decreed they ought to go in and resupply, well, Ray wasn't going to say no. 

Fraser knew the territory. Fraser knew what they needed. Fraser knew his name, goddamn it, and what the hell was up with this Ray Vecchio stuff? Ray ran a hand through his hair and sighed. 

Truth was, he'd been Ray Vecchio for a long time. Long enough for it to sink into his bones. It was probably going to be a while before he stopped answering the phone with an automatic, "Vecchio." Of course, it was going to be a while before he answered the phone again, being that they were on this quest up here in the Northwest Territories and he wasn't sure that they even had phones. 

After a few minutes Fraser and the shopkeeper came back into the main part of the store. Fraser gave the man some colored money and handed a heavy bag to Ray, hefting two for himself. "I believe this should do it. Now, shall we enjoy the fruits of civilization and go out to lunch?" 

Only Fraser would call this crappy little town "civilization," thought Ray. Hell, it barely qualified to be called a town. "I suppose there's a four-star restaurant here, huh. What do we got, mooseburgers? Moose fries with moose cream for dessert?" 

"Now, Ray," said Fraser, leading him out the door and down the street. "Vecchio's is a very good Italian restaurant." 

Ray blinked. "Wait a minute. What did you say?" 

But Fraser was already opening a door, a door that said _Vecchio's_ in gold script, and sure enough there was an Italian restaurant in there: red-and-white checked tablecloths, candles stuck in those fat wine bottles with wicker bottoms, the scent of tomato sauce and a whole lot of oregano. A dark-haired woman brought them over to a booth by a window and gave them menus. 

"I recommend the Veal Vecchio," she said, smiling. "I'll be back in a moment to take your order." 

Ray frowned at her as she walked off. "Something sound a little peculiar to you?" 

"Hmm?" said Fraser, opening his menu. "My, this looks good." 

Ray picked up the menu in front of him. It was a dark burgundy red, with _Vecchio's_ in gold script, just like on the door. Opening it, he scanned down the page. 

> Veal  
>  Vecchio$10.95  
>  Chicken Vecchio.$8.95  
>  Eggplant Vecchio$7.95  
>  Fresh Vecchio Salad$6.95

"What theFraser, is there something hinky about your menu?" 

Fraser looked over at him, bland and calm. "Nothing to your liking, Ray?" 

"This is weird. This is very weird." He turned his head, taking in the room around them; there were a surprising number of people in it, eating and talking and laughing, but it looked normal, perfectly normal. Like any place in Chicago. Except this wasn't Chicago, it was some tiny settlement with a name that had too many q's in it. Wasn't it? 

"Don't you think that this is a little too much of a coincidence? I mean, come on. Vecchio's?" 

"As I understand it, Vecchio is a not uncommon Italian surname. It stands to reason that an Italian restaurant such as this one -" 

"No, no. Fraser. You're not listening," he said, and glanced out the window at the snow-packed street outside. A pickup truck with a modified high suspension and oversized chained-up tires drove slowly by. As it passed, Ray saw the license plate on the back bumper: V3C H1O. 

A hot prickle of unease slid down his neck, down his spine, settled somewhere in his gut. Abruptly he stood. 

"Ray?" 

"I don't feel so good. I'm gonna - I think -" He grabbed the corner of the burgundy-colored fake leather upholstery to steady himself. "Don't go away," he told Fraser, and bolted for the restroom. 

There were two doors near the back of the restaurant opposite the swinging kitchen doors, one labeled _Rays_ and the other labeled _Frannies_ , with little silhouettes underneath them, a man-shape and a woman-shape. "I do not have time for this," he muttered under his breath, but he pushed open the door marked _Rays_ and headed for the sink. 

He ran cool water over his suddenly much-too-hot wrists, splashed some into his face, and stared down into the basin. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe it was the combination of having been out on the tundra for two weeks with nobody but Fraser and a dozen dogs, and then finally coming to a town with actual people in it, that was making him a little unhinged. He rubbed his eyes with wet fingers and looked up at the mirror. 

Ray Vecchio's face looked back at him. 

"No," he whispered. "That is not me. Not any more." 

His hand crept up to feel his hair. Okay, he knew it was kind of squashed flat from the hat he'd been wearing for the last two weeks, but it was supposed to be blond and there was supposed to be a hell of a lot more of it than the thin strands sliding through his fingers. 

"You are not me," he told the Ray Vecchio in the mirror. "I do not have to be you any more. I am Ray, Ray... oh, shit." He screwed his eyes shut so he didn't have to look in the mirror, at the hair that wasn't his hair, at that nose, at that fancy suit and loud tie. "Ray. Ray. I am..." 

It was just around the corner, who he was, what his name was, but he couldn't quite grasp it. It was like trying to grapple a slippery perp who didn't want to be grappled, like trying to get through to the bank when all you got was a computer on the end of the phone and you had to push buttons instead of talking to a real person, press V for verification and E for emergency and C for come on, Ray, it's just around the corner, don't freak out on me, don't, don't 

Gasping, he pushed open the restroom door. The dark-haired woman who'd seated him was out there; she looked at him with concern. 

"Vecchio?" 

He shook his head violently. "No. I am not Vecchio." 

She patted his shoulder and smiled. "Vecchio vecchio. Vecchio?" 

"I told you, no!" He could feel the panic rising in his throat as he pushed roughly past her, trying to spot Fraser in the sea of people. He bumped into a big man in a suit who frowned at him and said, "Vecchio," in an annoyed-sounding voice, and he started running between the tables, and people were looking up from their tables and he could hear them murmuring, "Vecchio, vecchio?" and damn it, where was Fraser? 

There, there he was, still at their table by the window, and he looked up at Ray with a smile as Ray came skidding to a stop in front of him. "There you are. Feeling better?" 

"Who am I?" Ray demanded. 

"Who are you? Ray, is this a joke question?" 

"Trick question, Fraser. And no, it is not a trick question." He leaned forward and put his hands on Fraser's shoulders. "Who am I?" 

Fraser looked at him as though he'd lost his mind, which, all things considered, was starting to look like a distinct possibility. "Why, you're Ray, of course." 

"I know that," he said. He tightened his grip on Fraser's shoulders. "What I want to know is, Ray who? _Ray who?_ " 

The last words came out in a shout; Fraser brought his own hands up to grasp Ray's upper arms and leaned in close to Ray's face, shaking him gently, his breath gusting warm across Ray's cheeks. "You're Ray. Ray, Ray -" 

" _Ray who?_ Tell me that, Fraser, tell me -" 

"Ray, Ray, Ray" 

 

"Ray! Ray!" 

Ray opened his eyes. Fraser had him by the arms, was shaking him gently, his breath gusting warm across Ray's cheeks, but they weren't in an Italian restaurant or even in a settlement, they were in a tent, and Ray was in his sleeping bag, staring groggily up at Fraser's concerned face. Even in the dim light of early dawn, even without his glasses on, he could see the lines of worry creasing Fraser's features. 

"You were screaming," said Fraser. 

"Yeah," said Ray hoarsely. His throat and eyes felt all gunked up, and his heart was pounding like the first time he and Fraser jumped off a three-story building together. "Fraser, who am I?" 

The lines on Fraser's face deepened, and he moved a hand to feel Ray's cheek with the back of his fingers. "Disorientation is one of the first signs of hypothermia," he said, frowning. "You're sweating." 

"I just had a nightmare, of course I'm sweating. I ain't hypo-whatever. Just tell me, Fraser. My name. I want to hear you say it." 

Fraser studied him for a moment, and Ray held his breath, waiting, waiting, his heart thudding so loud in the stillness. If he didn't say anything - if he said the wrong thing - come on, Fraser, come on - 

"You're Stanley Raymond Kowalski," said Fraser. 

"Don't call me Stanley," said Ray, but he was smiling. 


End file.
